


Were It So Simple

by Agmo



Series: Were It So Simple [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dom/Sub, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22467709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agmo/pseuds/Agmo
Summary: Finding your soulmate does not automatically mean you get a Happily Ever After.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Were It So Simple [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617667
Comments: 8
Kudos: 133





	Were It So Simple

Illya wakes slowly and realizes quickly that he is in a hospital. The smell, the rhythmic beeping. He notices the feel of a hand in his. Large and calloused. He cracks his eyes. “Cowboy?” His voice is raspy. His tongue tacky. 

Napoleon pulls slowly, visibly out of his thousand yard stare. Pulls his hand away from Illya's to swipe over his stubbled face as he turns abruptly out of the chair, and walks the few steps to the window. Unkempt, unshaven, Illya catalogues these things and knows Napoleon has been by his bedside for some time.

“Do you find me so repulsive?” He keeps his gaze steadily out the window, hands in his pockets. 

“What?”

“The only reason I could imagine you doing such a diligent job of hiding your mark across a myriad of missions and circumstances is that you didn’t want me to see. And the only reason I can imagine for such clear rejection is that you find me repulsive.” The last three words clearly and slowly articulated, the venom almost hidden, yet his stare never wavers from the rain streaked glass and parking lot below. 

“Napoleon—“

“Don’t. Solo, if I no longer even warrant Cowboy. You don’t get to reject me and call me that.”

Illya took the time to swallow, close his eyes and press his head back into the pillow. He spoke slowly. “You wear your mark so brazenly I knew who you were before I met you. From your dossier. You flaunt it as if it is something to be proud of.”

“I flaunt it, as you so say, because I wanted so badly to be found.”

“And I hid my mark because it is shame. For you it is easy. You are dominant, strong, what a man should be. But for me? For a man to be submissive to another man? To be weak and easily led and needy... I hid my mark for as long as I can remember so I would not be held back to the place I deserve for my weakness." Illya kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles. It was so much easier to be honest this way. "I hid it from you because I like the way you look at me. As your partner. Equal. I could not bare to see you think less of me.”

“Illya, I would never—“

“Napoleon,” He cut his eyes over to the window and the man, glassy with pain or grief. “I know they teach you otherwise in the West. But I have seen how the world treats men like me. I do not choose that life for myself. If you were to succeed in convincing me to be what you want, I would do so because my Dominant's desires are more important than my own. If I become yours that way, wouldn’t you be proving me right?”

At this, a retort died on Napoleon’s tongue. He had been ready to beg, to dare, to say anything that would give him a chance. He had waited so long for this man. But he had not been prepared for this argument. His whole life, Napoleon believed that when he finally found the one who bore his mark, it would be a joyful reunion. Now, his mark burned, his chest ached, he could not fill his lungs with air. The wrongness of the moment gave him vertigo. What could he do to change Illya’s mind that would not prove the man right?

The response had not fully formed in his mind when he knew what he had to do. A sudden inhale, a straightened spine. And god, it hurt. 

Napoleon had once walked through a black tie charity fundraiser at Versailles with a gun shot wound to his shoulder with no guest suspecting anything. He flirted with a countess on his way to the extraction point. He could keep his shit together. It was a necessity for a spy and Solo was a damn good spy. He could pull this off, too. 

Illya watched Napoleon turn and walk toward the door. He was suspicious of how the man held each muscle so casually. It was a Mayfair stroll and not at all appropriate to the room. As he paused near the door, Illya found himself in uncharted territory because Napoleon Solo seemed to be giving in. 

“You’re right, Peril. I cannot make you mine without proving you right. Perhaps one day you may choose me, and that would be all right. Until then, I’ll...” His words drifted off, uncharacteristically unable to finish the sentence. Instead, the tightened his tie, pulled his shirt cuff taut, and put on a dazzling smile. Napoleon Solo walked out through Illya’s hospital door.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been a fanfic lurker for years and I've finally posted my own work. Hello.


End file.
